Surpise box
by CutePoison
Summary: The head gets a bit of revenge?


Rick smiled smugly as he made his way to the door of his posh home, the home that was furnished with the blood money of the many characters he had gleefully killed off over the years. He was relishing in the delight of last night's slaughter fest. Dr. Sara was now just a head in the box of America (TV) and all other countries who continued to pave his pocket book with gold.

He grinned at this inside joke as he pulled open the door to retrieve his morning cache of newspapers. Surprise shot across his face at the white prop box on his doorstep. So the guys were fucking with him, huh?

He reeled it in and carried it to the desk, thankful that the blood on the bottom was dry. He didn't want his floor peppered with that nasty shit. He plopped it down and figuring it would be worth a laugh, he pulled it open. The head inside was staring up at him accusingly.

"Rick, you son of a bitch!" The scream that left the undead lips filled the room at a pitch to literally wake the dead.

He had taken a step back, as the words tore through his head, and was now standing a few feet from the offending box studying it. Gulping down his revulsion and the fear that had been startled out of him he tried to control his pounding heart, but it was going on a thrill ride.

Was this for real? Screamed through his head, was it his guilt at having killed off half of the duo of what the world considered a most beautiful love story? What guilt? Did he feel anything remotely like guilt? Hell no! A trick is what this was, a trick by the FX guys. They were fucking with him in high definition.

Heart still thumping at a gallop, he crept closer and peeked over the top of the box.

"What the fuck did you do?!" The scream was belted out and he jumped despite his inner resolve to not show weakness, just in case they had a hidden camera inside the damn thing.

His eyes were glued to the disheveled hair, the pasty skin of the prop head with an attitude. "You killed me you sorry excuse for a man!"

Okay this was going too far. He reached his shaking hands in to unhook the battery pack, his intentions to nip this shit in the bud once and for all. Who were they to think they could fuck with him like this? Didn't they know who he was, how important he was? He flipped the head around and his eyes sped over it searching.

"What the fuck?" This beautifully constructed sentence had barely left his lips when the head spun around exorcist style and spewed not green gunk, no, but an onslaught of profanities and accusations.

"You piece of shit, you call yourself a writer?! You probably couldn't write yourself out of a box! How could you make so many feel so bad about something they cared about? What gives you the right to lie to people, how do you sleep at night, you filthy whore for the almighty dollar!?" He dropped the head and watched in horror as it rolled a few feet away, where it lay inanimate as if he had imagined the whole thing. But face it he hadn't the imagination to keep a simple doctor alive how could he imagine something such as this? No, this was really happening. He was fucked on the highest level.

The head spun up like a top and righted itself, the dark hair tangling out behind it. The grin on its face saying everything had been said and it was now, as they say in show biz, time for ACTION!

He backed up as the head began to float, its dark hair a messy halo of vengeance.

"Please, I..." He stammered; the wordy fellow was now ironically at a loss for words. "I'm sorry!" He managed to get out and then the head flipped Matrix like through the air to land in front of his face, but a hair's breadth away. He felt the warm liquid flow down his legs as he pissed himself. The latex skin stretched into a deadly grin at this humiliation sending a whimper from his lips. "Please?" He was unable to move, to run his legs betraying him.

"Please? What about the pleas of the fans? What about their pleas days before you aired my death? Did you listen to them? Did you care?" The eyes, cold copper bore into him, the detail uncanny, so lifelike. But then it was alive wasn't it? All of the crappy writing in the world on his part could not change this.

He gulped air into his dry mouth, his heart pounding so hard, so fast. He felt the pain start somewhere in his arm and move to his heaving chest. The face in front of him just stared as the pain made its way across his face to join the terror in his eyes. He clutched at his heart as it was pierced much like the hearts of the many fans he had disappointed with his inability to write a decent storyline.

Seconds of silence ticked away each one punctuated with a stab of pain, and then the head fell lifeless to the floor to join his body in the pitiful puddle of urine that had accumulated at his feet. They would find Rick in a week's time stiff, and odorous, reeking of death, shit and unfulfilled promises 

(Chapter End Notes:)

I feel slightly better having written this. Ahhh!!!! 


End file.
